


apologies apologies

by hoppnhorn



Series: rivals (make the best lovers) [7]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Engagement, First Time Blow Jobs, Injury Recovery, Jealousy, M/M, motogp au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-08-16 19:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16501721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoppnhorn/pseuds/hoppnhorn
Summary: Nothing goes Billy's way, until they do.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as always, love to Janna for keeping me motivated and giggling over the _real_ Maniac with me. Enjoy!

People are always so goddamn  _ dramatic _ .

Talking about shit like  _ my life flashed before my eyes. _

In hindsight, Billy’s pretty sure he didn’t see anything “flash before his eyes” besides a whole lot of orange. And his thoughts aren’t anything eloquent.

_ Harrington’s wide. Shit. _

That’s all before he feels the rubber of his front tire catching on gravel and he just, knows. He’s crashed too many times in his life to  _ not _ know what a high side feels like before it happens. It’s that moment where the air stills and the body prickles with awareness, anticipating the hit. 

Or in his case, his body anticipates the jolt that sends him from his bike -- airborne, weightless, coiling for the fall. He says a small prayer behind his eyelids, like his mother used to when he’d first started riding.

_ Please god, not the head. _

Just before he lands on the asphalt with a deafening crack, helmet first.

 

 

The thing about being a celebrity is  _ people love a disaster _ . 

It’s like an accident on the highway; something that brings traffic to a grinding halt despite three lanes being clear.  _ Rubbernecking _ . Everyone  _ loves  _ a tragedy. Loves being able to talk about it and tell all their friends like, oh you  _ haven’t heard _ ? 

Yeah, he’s _ all over _ the news. Reporters descended like vultures, picking at his bones despite the fact he hasn’t actually even  _ spoken _ to anyone. Because, the nurses would tell anyone, Billy Hargrove can  _ definitely _ speak for himself. Vigorously. 

But before he’s even had an MRI, his best Calvin Klein ad is being splashed on ESPN. Some sob story to match.

_ Motogp champion injured in brutal crash. _

Not his best headline but it gets points for drama. There are replays of his massive high side all over the MotoGP website and his phone battery dies from Twitter notifications in only a couple of hours.

He’s  _ injured _ . Not fucking  _ dead _ . But the world doesn’t seem to see a difference, even though he could point out at least three souls that lost their lives and they didn’t get  _ near  _ the attention his little humpty-dumpty act is getting him. 

He’d laugh at the press calling his fall  _ brutal _ , if he didn’t have bruises like,  _ everywhere _ . But even he has to flinch at the replays, at the way his head had slammed into the gravel pit. The way his neck had bent and he’d slid unconscious to a stop.

Honestly, it’s downright scary, not remembering it. It’s not the first time he’s lost consciousness during a crash but it’s been a solid while since he’s seriously tested his mortality. If he’s honest, he’s a little shaken by the whole thing. Reminded that he’s flesh and bone, not untouchable. He feels dread in his gut, watching the part of the video where he’s clearly waking up, waving a hand at a track marshal as if to say  _ I’m fine _ . Because he doesn’t  _ remember  _ doing that. 

Billy also doesn’t remember collapsing onto a stretcher.

Really, it looks so much worse than it is. He has a couple of bruised ribs. Some neck pain. And a dislocated toe, of all  _ fucking _ things. If his whole body didn’t feel like a goddamn pin cushion, he’d be throwing a  _ tantrum  _ over being deemed unable to race.

Like, it’s a  _ toe. _ He’s  _ fine _ . 

But really, he hurts. All over. The idea of a small break to recover isn’t the worst thing he’s ever heard. But.

He has a reputation to keep.

“Someone GET ME OUT OF HERE.” He yells for the fifteenth time since he’d been carted into a private room. A nurse pokes her head in, frowns at him as he tries to stand and get from his bed to the bag holding his clothes.

His manager had brought them a few hours ago, right before he’d “taken a phone call” and vanished. Billy knows when he’s being avoided.

No one wants to explain to him that he has to stay in the hospital any longer than he  _ wants _ to be in the hospital.

“Mr. Hargrove, please, get back into bed.” The nurse visibly bristles as she hustles to his side, takes his arm in a firm grip. He gives her one of his manic smiles, the kind that reminds him of that Australian shark from that Pixar movie.

_ Hello _ . 

With all those  _ teeth _ .

“If someone doesn’t get a doctor to sign me  _ out _ of this place in the next  _ ten minutes _ , I’m going to  _ walk _ out.” 

She holds her breath, like she’s holding in a slew of angry retorts. Instead, her grip on his arm loosens and she gestures to his bed.

“I’ll go page your doctor,  _ again _ , but  _ please _ , get back into bed.” 

He intends to scowl but as she helps him back to the mattress, the nurse’s hand slips over his arm, presses unknowingly into a significant bruise and he winces instead, a grimace on his face as he stumbles away.

It’s not something he broadcasts, his thing about being grabbed _.  _ Especially to people who could turn around and blab to some blogger. He has gossip, sure, about drug problems or sleeping with supermodels; not about why he doesn’t like being  _ handled _ .

“I’ve  _ got _ it.” He covers, settling back into the bed. “Just find my goddamn doctor.” 

“Give it a rest, ya blow hard.” There are two people in the world who can call him  _ blow hard _ and get away with it. And the fiery redhead standing in the doorway to his room is the first. “Well I’m disappointed, someone told me you were like, dying or something.” Max says with a smirk on her face, moving out of the way as the nurse leaves. 

Billy laughs.

Then immediately regrets it. Grabbing his ribs, he leans back on his pillows, panting from pain. Not that he isn’t significantly doped but there’s only so much the hospital can do before he’s like,  _ useless _ . 

And pain doesn’t really give a shit if he’d like a little rest. 

“Good to see you too, Maxine.” He grunts as his sister grabs an armchair from the corner of the room and parks it next to his bed, tossing both legs over an arm to recline like she  _ owns _ the place. They might not be blood but Billy sees the family resemblance all the time. 

“Isn’t it?” She quips before reaching out to push on his arm. Just a little. “So what’s the damage, captain crunch?” 

“I’m fine.” He hedges, to which his sister snorts and rolls her eyes.

“Cool, what’s the unabridged version?” 

Normally, he wouldn’t  _ mind _ telling Max what hurts. What aches. But he knows that somewhere outside, probably sitting in her new Escalade, is Susan. And Susan is great and worries more than anyone ever should -- but she’s also like,  _ addicted _ to facebook. 

Whatever he tells Max will almost certainly make it back to the facebook fan pages when Susan posts some dumb thing about how he’s holding up. How her stepson is grateful for all the well wishes and shit. 

Which, alright, it’s  _ nice _ having people care about him but like, it’s all temporary. 

And he’s really not in the mood. 

“Dislocated toe. Bruises and whatnot. The usual.” He finally answers after Max’s stare lingers. 

“You landed on your head. How did you dislocate your  _ toe _ ?” She asks, looking at his foot where, sure enough, the doctor has wrapped an obscene about of ace bandage around his entire left foot. Like all the way up to his ankle. 

To keep it  _ stationary _ or whatever. 

“Thick skull.” He replies, flashing a dumb grin. Max snorts and shakes her head, but her smile is fond. 

“Not a surprise.” For a minute they simply sit together, which for them isn’t odd.

When they were kids, he and Max would sit next to each other in cars on the way to races, side by side, saying nothing but sharing the same anxiety. The same  _ butterflies. _

Will today be a good day? Or a bad day?

“Saw you finished on the podium.” Billy says, trying his best to keep from  _ beaming _ with pride. Like he  _ hadn’t _ been screaming his goddamn head off with the rest of her crew before he’d been herded back to the garage for his own race. 

“Yeah, still kinda bummed I got second though. I had Marshall outpaced.” Max groans, crossing her arms. “Asshole slammed the door on me.”

“Because you’re his biggest competition.” Billy points out, remembering the days when he’d been just like Max, wishing he could outshine the favored winners. “You’ve got his lead down to what, nineteen points?” 

“Fourteen.” She mutters. “But I wanted that win. I’m not gonna get Estrella Galicia to sign me for Moto2 with a whole bunch of  _ almosts _ .” 

This time, it’s Billy that snorts. 

“You’re the best female rider since  _ ever _ and you consistently give the leaders a run for their money. You’ll be in GP before you know it.” 

Billy never actually  _ tells _ Max he’s proud of her. But, really, he’s pretty damn proud. And he’s fairly certain it goes unsaid when Max smiles up at him, honest and bright like a little kid, before she rolls her eyes and softly punches his thigh. 

“Idiot.”

 

 

Unfit to race. 

Yeah it sort of  _ sucks _ , but the minute he crashes into his own bed for the first time in months, Billy kind of wants to thank the fucking windbag doctor who deemed him such. 

There’s a reason he only has a few more years left in him. The sport is  _ draining _ . Both mentally and physically, Billy figures he can keep at it until he’s nearly forty. But after that, he’s doing something squishy. Like, commentating or,  _ hell _ , maybe he’ll start his own team. Hire a couple of young kids and slap his name on their bikes. Live fat and happy.

Maybe they’ll make another video game with his name on it and he can give his bones a rest. 

Because he feels it, the exhaustion, down to his very marrow. Billy sleeps for a solid thirteen hours before someone knocks on his front door and he forces himself upright, saunters down to answer it. 

He’s partly expecting it to be a delivery from his manager or some care package from the team like,  _ Get Better Soon _ because they can’t put,  _ Rot in Hell Traitor _ on a card without the whole world finding out.

Maybe Honda would send him something edible. Those deliveries are always better than flowers  _ anyways _ .

Like who would rather get some wilting daisies over a selection of meat and cheeses? The answer is no one. 

But what he finds when he answers the door isn’t some random dude in a uniform, asking him to sign shit. 

“Special delivery.” Harrington purrs, leaning in his doorway like a freaking  _ dork _ . And, really, he should laugh at him. He should. 

He doesn’t. 

“Hey.” He says almost softly, his body going slack because, well,  _ seeing _ Steve is enough. Enough to put him in a good mood for the rest of the week. It’s better than any prescription a doctor could sign.

“Wow.” Steve follows up with, eyes travelling all over Billy’s body. There’s not a lot  _ covered _ exactly. He’d answered the door in nothing but shorts because it’d felt too close to painful to put clothes over all his freaking bruises. 

So. He might be a garment away from naked, but it’s nothing close to a pretty sight. 

“It looks worse than it is.” Billy tries, but he knows that Steve knows bullshit when he hears it. After all, Steve’s had the same sort of injuries, numerous times.

“Yeah right.” Steve steps into him, nearly nose to nose, and Billy quickly gets the door closed. 

Because the last thing he needs is some asshole photographing him as he grabs Steve Harrington by the back of the neck and pulls him in for a kiss. Slowly he savors. Lets his eyes drift closed as he tips his head back, opening his mouth when Steve licks between his lips. 

There’s no hesitation between them anymore. No unfamiliarity. 

“Fuck.” Billy groans as they part, stumbling back into the living room with Steve in tow. “Just what the doctor ordered.” 

“Pretty sure the hospital didn’t prescribe a booty call.” Steve chuckles into his cheek. “But I’m happy to oblige anyway.”

“Wait.” Billy murmurs as Steve dives for his mouth again, hungrily. “How are you  _ here _ ?” 

“I fly out to Japan tonight.” Steve says quickly, before he takes Billy’s face into both hands. “But I wanted to see you.” 

It would be  _ romantic _ if Billy didn’t feel like his whole body was a bruise. 

“Worried about me?” He asks, pulling away just enough to look Steve in the eye. 

“That and…” Steve suddenly looks shy, chewing the inside of his cheek. “The footage looked bad, Billy.” 

“Nah.” He waves a hand but Steve doesn’t look convinced. In fact, the crease between his eyes grows deeper. More pronounced. “That’s why they put airbags in our suits and spend millions of dollar testing helmets. So they can drop us on our heads at 200 mph.” He grins but Steve doesn’t. Steve holds his stare and something in Billy’s belly feels hollow. 

“You swerved to avoid me, the whole world saw that.” 

Billy swallows at the  _ whole world _ , like his actions are suddenly so transparent that he’s under a spotlight. Like they all  _ know _ . 

“You were in front, you couldn’t see me—” Steve seals their mouths, cuts off Billy’s excuses with a kiss that makes him forget what he’d even been  _ saying _ . And it’s good, for a long beat or so, before Steve pulls away and rubs his thumbs over Billy’s cheeks. 

“You could have hit me and taken us both out, but you swerved and took a heavier hit for it.” For once, he feels sort of  _ dumb _ , shrugging his shoulders. 

“It’s not like I was making  _ choices _ , it was a reaction.” It’s not even a lie. When things happen at that kind of speed, there’s only time for a reaction. No planning. No choice. And Billy knows that Steve is aware of that, the same way he knows he might have swerved a little harder when he saw that Repsol orange.

“Well, your reaction saved my race. And I can’t help but feel grateful.”

“Oh so this is a  _ thank you  _ booty call?” 

He’s going for humor but there’s something like  _ shame _ pinking on Steve’s cheeks when he smiles and looks away. Which is just  _ fucking _ adorable. Billy wants to kiss the color until it’s all over Steve’s skin.

“No. Well. Sorta.” And there’s something so very vulnerable in his expression when he leans into Billy’s space, pecks him on the mouth. “I’m sorry you’re hurt.” 

He puts on his best smirk, arches one brow. “I’ve survived worse.”

The words feel a little close to melancholy and Steve senses it, like Billy knew he would. He moves in, brushes his cheek to Billy’s stubble. It’s nice, being close to someone. Close enough that Billy can let his eyes drift shut, savor the sensation of a warm body against his own. 

“Just take the sympathy.” Steve murmurs into his ear, his mouth moving on Billy’s skin. “I’m sorry you’re not leaving for Japan with me.”

Billy swallows down a sigh. Because, yeah, he’s sorry too. 

“ _ Fine _ .” He drawls, a smile infecting his expression. Making him go loose in Steve’s arms. Impulsively, he turns his head, presses a kiss to Steve’s cheek before he responds into the shell of ear. “Thank you.”

Steve’s arms around his back, holding him up, feels far too much like love.

“I brought you a fruit basket.” The guy murmurs. Billy keeps his eyes closed, relishes the way they’re just  _ standing _ there, in a hug that he never wants to end. “You know, because a good grapefruit cures all that ails you.” 

“I thought they would have sent oranges.” He says before he pulls away. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to pull away, but then he wouldn’t be able to see the big, dopey grin on Steve’s face. “You know…”

“Repsol oranges. Ha. You’re _hilarious_.” But Steve laughs anyway. 

“Come in and sit.” Billy remembers how to be a host at some point, grimacing when the warmth of Steve’s body leaves him. “You want something to drink?”

“How about you sit and I get us both a...beer?” Steve’s in the kitchen before Billy even makes it halfway, puts the basket on the counter and starts digging in the fridge. Billy watches, forgetting that he’d been  _ asked _ something. “Earth to Hargrove?” Steve looks back over his shoulder and Billy almost says it. 

Right then. 

“Yeah, beer is fine.” 

Steve blinks at him, standing in the door of his Kenmore. “What do you  _ actually _ want?” 

It’s like they’ve been doing this for years.

“Gatorade.” He admits and Steve nods, plucks one of the red bottles off the shelf. “And a kiss.”

 

 

What starts out as a polite attempt at conversation turns into Billy falling back against overstuffed couch cushions and watching Steve Harrington --  _ Steve Harrington _ \-- walk around his living room and comment on all his trophies. All his photos and certificates. 

Not that Steve doesn’t have that and more in his own home. Somewhere.

Billy wonders where he keeps them all. If he has a decorator like the one Susan had  _ insisted _ he hire, some hipster wearing a lot of natural fibers who’d wandered through his home and told him what he was missing. Demanded that he put his achievements front and center, like some kind of King. 

But Steve is a real king. A  _ prodigy _ . 

At one point he’d envied that kind of notoriety. He’d wanted to be called the prodigy. After fighting with Steve on the track for years, witnessing his natural grace firsthand, Billy knows now that he will never be Steve Harrington. 

Some things you’re just born with. 

Like stupid looking ears or a big dick. 

“Hey, you okay?” Steve jogs him out of his thoughts, his face laced with concern. 

“I’m great.” Billy smiles, but it feels sort of slack. Like he needs another round of four ibuprofen from the bathroom cabinet upstairs. 

“You’re a bad liar.” Steve replies, crossing the room to lean over him, touch his face tenderly. It feels like a dream, having him there. Having him so close. “Tell me what you need.”

“What I  _ need _ ,” He purrs, grabbing at a handful of Steve’s shirt. “Is that kiss.” 

And, thankfully, Steve goes without a fight. In fact, he sinks into the couch without much effort at all, straddling Billy’s waist as their mouths connect. Sweetly at first, then deeper. Consuming. Steve tastes like the fruity IPA left by Max the day before and his mouth is cool, wet. 

The heat happens slowly, much slower than their usual speed. Billy blames the dull ache in his chest, the harsher pains in his back. He doesn’t let Steve see that each breath he takes hurts. Not when he’s dreamed of this moment for years. His hands on Steve’s thighs, the weight of his body on his waist. 

“I want you.” Billy breathes, desperate,  _ needy _ . And Steve ducks his head to suck at his neck, sending shivers all over Billy’s body and a sigh from his lips. “Steve.”

“You’re black and blue, baby.” Steve mouths at his pulse. “Don’t think I can’t hear you holding your breath.”

“I’m  _ fine _ .” He moans, his hands  _ everywhere _ trying to pull Steve closer. “Please.”

“I’ll take care of you.” Steve says, licking the shell of his ear. “I owe you that much.” 

“Owe me?” Something about the phrase startles him out of his stupor and Billy pulls away, just to get a look at Steve’s face. “Why do you owe me?” 

The playful grin he wears puts all Billy’s fears to rest. 

“You apologized to me once for pushing me off the track. Only fair I return the favor.” 

And like, even though the situations are  _ completely _ different, Billy’s belly burns hot with recollection. The memory of getting on his knees for Steve that first time. That first time they were anything but rivals. 

Lovers. 

“Okay.” He swallows thickly and Steve laughs a little, like he appreciates the way Billy is blushing and panting in anticipation before his clothes are even off.

Not that his clothes freaking  _ bar _ much. 

He’s in gym shorts and his cock is tenting them  _ enthusiastically _ . Just the right brush and he might make a mess. 

“Is it bad to say I’m, uh…” Steve looks down, lightly cups the shaft of Billy’s cock and his blood runs thick to his balls with lust. His moan is soft but Steve kisses it from his lips anyway. “I’ve never…” Steve pants into his mouth, swallows. 

“It’s okay.” Billy murmurs. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to, trust me.” Steve laughs, his smile something like  _ seriously _ . “I’ve been sorta, um,  _ watching _ stuff.” 

And well, Billy has to shift his hips to keep from humping like a dog in heat. 

“Christ, you’ve been watching porn?” Billy groans and Steve’s hand tightens on his dick, strokes his hard sex more deliberately. “You’re gonna fucking  _ kill me _ .” 

“Hopefully not.” Steve laughs again, presses their foreheads together to look him in the eye. “But I  _ am _ gonna try to send you to heaven.” 

“Dork.” Billy breathes, just before Steve slides away, looking up at him from beside his cock. It’s kind of  _ goofy _ , Steve’s face right up against the dumb tent in his pants but it’s also just  _ fucking sexy _ . 

“You like me.” Steve points out, the lowers his face, mouths against the head of Billy’s cock through his shorts while he stares up at him. Waiting. Expectant. 

It’s all Billy can do to keep from begging. 

“Yeah, sorta.” He teases instead and Steve smiles. Devilish and gleeful. 

“I’m about to suck your cock, Hargrove. The least you can do is be  _ honest _ .” 

He’s not  _ proud _ , yeah, definitely not proud. But he’s also not ready to let the orgasm in his balls make it to his shaft and hearing  _ Steve  _ say that he’s going to  _ suck his cock _ puts him at pleasure’s front door. So Billy reaches, grabs himself and  _ squeezes  _ around Steve’s grip. Holds the pleasure at bay with a hum and a whine.

“Jesus, you’re driving me nuts.” He pants and Steve rocks up to catch his mouth in a sloppy, wanting kiss. One just as sinful as the palm on his dick. “I’m gonna come before you even get me  _ naked _ , Harrington.” He groans.

“Fuck that’s hot.” Steve whispers against his lips. “So  _ fucking _ hot.” 

And like, he’s supposed to be a  _ player _ , right? The Maniac. Sex fiend and unchecked horn dog. 

The reality is much more, well. 

Real.

“I’m crazy about you.” He confesses. The kind of crazy that has him throbbing in his pants from just a little kissing, crazy. Crazy like he could have been killed for swerving like he did,  _ crazy _ . 

Because, yeah, he’d definitely swerved. 

To protect Steve.  _ His _ Steve. The same Steve looking up at him now, eyes wide and mouth slack, awestruck and lust drunk. 

“Me too.” The guy says, a little grin tilting the corner of his mouth. 

This time, when their lips meet, it’s not rushed. Or frantic. Steve makes love to his mouth, licks passed his teeth to tease Billy’s tongue. Nibble his bottom lip. To fuse them together. It almost distracts Billy from the task at hand. 

That is, until Steve slips the waistband of his shorts down his hips, lifting the material until his cock is freed. 

The thing  _ kicks _ like a puppy wagging its tail. 

And Steve, to his credit, doesn’t make him wait. He doesn’t even hesitate before he’s ducking his head and kissing the tip of Billy’s cock, giving it little licks. 

Watching is almost as good as the actual sensation itself and Billy lets him know, groaning with each exhale, no matter how much his ribs pang in protest. He pets Steve’s long hair, grips it a little at the roots before he lets it go and repeats the gesture. Drowning.

When Steve opens and takes the tip of his cock into his mouth, he’s looking up at Billy, lips pink and cheeks hollow as he sucks. 

“ _ Oh _ .” Billy arches, so close to helpless as Steve takes more, pushing the blunt head of his cock down the length of his tongue. He can feel him tasting, testing, finding his limits. Then Steve  _ opens his goddamn throat _ and swallows him down. 

And like, he’d be  _ all about it _ , but Steve chokes and Billy’s first instinct is to lift Steve’s face. But the guy  _ moans _ and does it again, and again, and eventually Billy is digging his nails into the couch to keep from pulling on Steve’s hair.

Then he comes so hard his entire body seizes, spasming under Steve’s hold and curling inward. 

It’s almost too much when Steve moans and swallows his release down like it doesn’t taste bitter. The guy doesn’t even blink. He’s watching the whole time, licking him clean, running his hands all over Billy’s skin. It’s entirely too good. Like, Billy’s pretty sure he hasn’t come so fast since freaking  _ high school _ and this is Steve’s first attempt, so. 

He’s  _ toast _ . 

Kissing his thigh, Steve seems to read his mind, a cocky smile spreading on his face. 

“What the doctor ordered?” He asks, stroking Billy’s leg with the tips of his finger nails. It takes a minute for Billy to even remember the English language as he gulps down air but Steve doesn’t seem to mind. Resting his cheek on Billy’s hip, he kisses him. Smiles. 

“Fuck yeah.” Are the first words he can come up with. And as  _ brash  _ a compliment as they are, Steve blushes. 

Like he  _ wasn’t  _ just the star of the best porno Billy’s ever  _ seen _ . 

Suddenly he’s  _ frustrated _ . He wants to be whole again. He wishes he could haul Steve up in his arms and carry him to bed, spend what little time they have in it, and make him see stars. 

“Come here.” He grinds out, pulling on Steve’s arms and flipping him onto the cushions. It’s not graceful  _ by any means _ , but it’s Steve on his back and Billy  _ likes _ that. Likes that there’s a defined imprint of Steve’s cock in his pant leg, pressing to the seam. It’s disguised a little by the black denim but Billy isn’t fooled. 

He knows what Harrington’s packing.

“Only fair.” Billy teases as he rubs his full palm against the ridge of Steve’s cock. 

His leg is aching from supporting his weight, his shoulder hurts from the angle, and his foot feels like it weighs a thousand pounds from all the  _ swelling _ but Billy, honestly, couldn’t give less of a shit. Not with Steve arching up on the couch and blushing all pretty down his throat, reaching for Billy’s face. 

“Billy.” And the way he says his  _ name _ . It’s maddening, like a siren’s song, and Billy groans, shoots out to catch Steve’s open lips with his own. He knows he’ll never get tired of hearing his name said like that. Never.

“Let me.” He grunts between kisses, his hands going for the guy’s fly before Steve can reply. But it’s not like he’s not  _ unwelcome _ . There’s a hurried breath and Steve kisses him harder as Billy gets a hand in his pants, rucks them down his hips. 

Steve lets out a little whine when Billy’s palm finds his cock, wraps it up tight and warm. 

And then that  _ word  _ again.

“ _ Billy _ .” 

Steve doesn’t have to ask and Billy vows he never will. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy's road to recovery is bumpy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> motogp 2019 starts soon, so I want to move things along and hopefully start things up again. thanks for hanging in with me. sorry this one is sort of short.

His body has just started to  _ not  _ feel like he’d tangoed with a train, his bruises fading and his aches ebbing. And he’s ventured out of the privacy of his large, but  _ lonely _ , house in search of decent coffee. 

Namely coffee made by someone else with a machine too complicated for him to own, let alone  _ use _ , and Joe’s is the best coffee in town. Plus all the baristas  _ know _ his order so it’s a no brainer.

Hell, his favorite barista -- which has nothing to do with the number 29 Kelly has tattooed on her shoulder blade -- brings him not just his coffee, but his token blueberry bagel and a newspaper. Not that he really  _ reads _ the news much anymore. That’s a one way ticket to  _ depression _ . But Kelly has a tabloid rolled up in her apron, and Billy just happens to spot a familiar face on the cover.

“Hey sweetheart.” He purrs, reaching out to catch her elbow before she can vanish from his side. “Can I borrow that?” 

It doesn’t take much. Just a few sloppy sentences by some gossip rag and Billy feels the floor shifting under his feet. It’s not even  _ confirmed _ , it’s just a photo.

A photo of Nancy Wheeler and Steve Harrington, coming out of a Japanese airport. 

And there’s a ring on Nancy’s fucking finger. 

Weirdly enough, he doesn’t stick around to finish his bagel.

 

 

Instead he gets fucking  _ stoned _ . 

For the first time in years, he calls up some idiot from high school and buys whatever the guy has on him and goes in  _ hard _ . Like he doesn’t have anything to lose, hard. 

Which, obviously he  _ does _ .

But he can’t help feeling like he’s already lost it. 

Billy smokes and then cranks up his hot tub and gets in, drinks half a bottle of some shitty rosé Susan brought him a few months back, and lets the booze soak into his bones. Lets the heat melt the tension in his muscles. 

For a minute, he considers going out. 

It’d be like riding a bike, picking up some stranger to bring them back to his place. Maybe he’d wind up on the front page too, surrounded by girls in miniskirts when he’s supposed to be recuperating at home. 

Maybe then he wouldn’t feel like he was such a pathetic  _ idiot _ . 

But he doesn’t go. He doesn’t do anything except drink the other half of the rosé and smoke the rest of the weed. Then he stays up until the early hours of the morning to watch free practice begin, falling asleep to the sound of engines. 

He’s still a little baked when he wakes up and sees Maxine is hitting up his phone for like, the eightieth time. The cloud in his logic mixed with the grogginess of sleep makes him  _ stupid  _ enough to reach over and actually fucking answer. 

Because, seriously, he’s in no shape to talk to anyone. Let alone his fucking  _ clairvoyant  _ sister.

“‘ello?” He croons into the phone, his mind decidedly centering on pizza for breakfast. Or maybe  _ pie _ . 

“Thanks so much, assclown. Jane has a picture of your abs as her lock screen and I get to stare at them all the time now so, again.  _ Thanks _ .”

“You’re so  _ welcome _ , Maxine. Is that why you’re blowing up my phone? My spectacular influence over your stupid friends?” 

“She’s my _best_ friend and likes you far more than you deserve and you _know_ that, _William_. Don’t be a dick.” Max snarls at him and Billy snorts, rolls gracefully off the couch to land on his feet. 

Like a ninja. 

“Yeah yeah, you know I’m not even batting for the right team, give it a  _ rest _ .” After a beat, he laughs, knowing all too well that Max is rolling her eyes at him from miles away. “Do you think it’d make me more or less popular with the ladies if the world found out?”

“Wanna tell me why you posted three basically  _ naked  _ selfies at one in the morning your time?” Max presses passed the topic and Billy is grateful. He’s  _ high _ but he’s not made of fucking stone.

“Who’s asking?” He grunts, rounding the corner into the kitchen. There’s a full fridge of food, he knows because he  _ paid _ for it to be thus. But all he wants is something he doesn’t have. 

Which, talk about  _ telling _ .

“Okay, you have to admit, it doesn’t take a psychology major to figure out you’re bored and sad all alone in your big stupid house.” 

“Lord, just hand the phone over, Maxine.” He says with a smirk, knowing all too well that his sister will have to oblige. Because, like him, she’s got a soft spot for big brown eyes. 

“Hi Billy.” Jane’s voice is always downy soft in comparison to Max’s biting tone and Billy smiles despite himself. Like a  _ dope _ . 

Of all his sister’s friends, he likes Jane the best. Plus, Jane  _ really _ likes him so.

Yeah, it’s nice. 

“Hey sweetheart.” He purrs into the phone. “How’s my dumb sister treating you?” 

“Very well. How are you doing?” 

And, for the first time since he picked up the phone, he hesitates. Like, maybe he’s run out of runway and now he’s  _ cornered _ . 

“Ah, you know.” He tries to play it off, but he can sense Jane isn’t going to let him get away with it. And she doesn’t. She waits.

And waits. 

Billy can hear Max mumbling in the background and he finally sighs. 

“I wish I was there.” 

“You’re not missing much.” Jane says with the lilt of a smile in her voice. Max says something and Billy wishes he could hear her before Jane continues. “Max says Steve Harrington is doing well.”

There’s a noise, a rustling, and then Max is loud and clear in his ear. 

“I  _ said _ your  _ crush _ .”

“He’s allowed to have a crush.” Jane counters from the background as Billy grumbles. 

“I don’t have a  _ crush _ .”

After all,  _ crush _ doesn’t seem to cover the amount of sexual activity going on between himself and Harrington. Not even close.

“Okay, bullshit. You  _ pine _ , Billy.”

And like, it’s cute that her words make him  _ blush _ . Like, obviously, he has a thing for Harrington but only Maxine knows just how  _ badly _ he has a thing for Harrington.

Besides, well,  _ Harrington _ .

“So the golden idiot is doing well?” He plays along. 

“Like you weren’t watching this morning? Please.” She snorts at him and Billy smiles. “It’s no coincidence you took those pictures right after practice ended. You took them to stay relevant after that great elbow save.”

“He’s done it a thousand times.” Billy retorts. Which is true. Steve is a great rider, and light enough he can keep himself upright with a mere elbow in a bad turn. Max cackles before her voice turns whiny. 

“Pay attention to  _ me _ . I’m Billy Hargrove and I’m  _ injured _ —”

“What, like it was anything special? The guy starts on pole every other week.” 

“Yeah, but it’s the first time he hasn’t had to fight you for it in a long time.” Max answers. The silence between them stretches for a moment and Billy bites the inside of his cheek. Yeah, he  _ wants _ to be there. Wishes he were. 

Hates himself for sitting at home. 

“You’ll be back next week, right Billy?” Jane asks gently, her voice appearing in the foreground once more. He smiles. It’s hard not to when Jane has such faith in him.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” He answers with a smile. “Promise.”

 

 

He hits the gym like it’s his life’s mission. Sweats until he can’t get a grip on the barbell anymore, has to wipe himself down before he’s at it again. 

And it’s not some cute little  _ photoshoot _ sort of workout. 

It’s the balls out, nasty, red-faced bullshit that no one wants to see in a magazine. And he’s blasting some metal bullshit to keep himself in the zone. Keep himself  _ focused _ as his body protests every move. 

His riding trainer would probably kick his ass for abusing himself like he is but he’s got a fire in him now, something low and simmering that needs to bleed out into the air. 

He’s  _ angry _ , for a lot of reasons. 

First, he’s mortal. Which, yeah no one can escape that one. But he’s mad anyway, wishing his bruises would mend faster and his aches would fade away. They don’t, obviously, but his stride is getting stronger. 

He  _ will _ make it to the next race, if he has to walk to fucking Italy. 

But then there’s the second thing. 

Harrington. 

Not Steve. No, he can’t be this angry with Steve. Steve is the man with soft smiles and doped out pupils telling him he wants him. Telling him he’s crazy about him. 

Harrington is the asshole that proposed to his tv girlfriend and paraded her around in front of the paparazzi all weekend. The dickhead who was all smiles for the cameras after qualifying, like he didn’t have a care in the world now that his biggest rival was out of commission. 

Asshole. 

Billy wants to hate him. He really does. But he doesn’t hate him. Can’t even  _ blame _ him. Because the moment that any news outlet even gets a  _ whiff _ of Steve Harrington being a fag, the game would completely change. 

And not just for  _ him _ . 

Billy being outed would put his life on a new axis. He knows that publicly everyone would preach to the moon and back about supporting everyone, no matter their race, sexual orientation or whatever. But his sponsors would quietly back away. His team would support him  _ maybe _ , but the minute he’s not the ideal heterosexual  _ man’s man _ , he’d be tossed aside in favor of someone else. 

Someone  _ straight _ . 

Steve could survive. Steve is a champion, and a prodigy. He’d kick ass until his respect was universal. But it’s safer for him to play along to expectations. To marry Nancy and maybe get her pregnant, put up the facade of a perfect life in public while he steals moments with Billy in private. 

It doesn’t mean the shit doesn’t make him  _ burn. _

So he blasts his angry music and lifts until his body begs for mercy. Lets the rage engulf him until it has nothing left to devour. 

Until he’s simply ash. 

 

 

The race is nothing short of breathtaking. In the pouring rain, twenty-six riders start and only  _ half _ cross the finish line. 

Billy about has a stroke each and every time he sees Steve wobble. Waits with bated breath as the laps go by, his heart rabbiting hard in his ribs, making his mouth dry. 

And then it’s over. Steve crosses the finish line without so much as a quiver and rockets through the thing, takes a lap to wave, like he always does.

But he doesn’t stop and run around like a complete  _ idiot _ in front of his fan section. He doesn’t pop up onto his rear wheel and show off, which could be because of the rain. But when he gets to parc ferme, there’s something  _ wrong _ with Steve’s face. 

Like, obviously he’s  _ smiling _ . Because he’s always got a great big fucking grin for the cameras. Yet there’s something missing from this particular smile and Billy sees it now, knows firsthand how radiant Steve Harrington looks when he’s happy. Truly, completely happy.

And that spark is just  _ not  _ there when Steve takes off his helmet and hugs his crew. Hands out high fives while a Red Bull is shoved in his hand and a sponsor’s hat popped on his head.

No, something is off. It’s subtle but it’s there. And then that’s when Billy realizes it. 

_Nancy isn’t_ _there_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me [@hoppnhorn](https://hoppnhorn.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> find me [@hoppnhorn](https://hoppnhorn.tumblr.com)


End file.
